Should Auld Acquaintances be Forgotten
by King gunman
Summary: To sacrifice oneself for the sake of others is the mark of a hero. To sacrifice one's own happiness for the sake of others is the mark of a champion. When these two meet, only growth my accure.


**Should Auld Acquaintances Be Forgotten**

Based upon the famous short story by Alan Brennet and Dick Giordano

Disclaimer: I do not own Deadman or any related characters, all of which are property of DC.

* * *

December 25, 1989 

The streets were crowded with people, smiling and laughing as they held onto those close to their hearts. A gentle, cold breeze swept the city as tiny flakes of snow drifted down from the sky. A Salvation Army Santa rang his bell merrily as the occasional passer by dropped a quarter or dollar bill into his bucket.

A violet limo pulled up to the side of the bustling, street. The driver, a tall middle aged black man stepped out and opened the passenger door. Out came a man in a brown trench coat and slicked back hair. His face was slightly squashed and carried with it an arrogant glint in his eyes.

_I've been scoping this one out for about a week now. John Turner Danforth, 45 years old. Net worth around 65 million. King of the Leveraged Buy-Out._

With a swagger, John entered a department store. A department store he owned 49 percent of.

Last year he snapped up a major super-market chain with enough junk bonds to float Manila, then, sold off the company piece by piece to the highest bidders. In the process he puts fifty thousand people out of work, and after the carcass has been picked clean, he's ahead by ten million.

His fine, hand crafted Italian shoes clacked against the cool, slick floor of the department store. By the end of the year, John would own fifty-one percent of the store, just enough to have control over the store.

_Can I pick 'em or what?_

As John passed the perfume counter, he stopped and shivered. A faint moan passed his lips.

"Sir, are you alright?" asked the perfume lady, leaning over the counter.

_Uck! He feels cold—wet—inside. It's like shrugging into a cashmere coat dipped in salad oil_.

An uncharacteristic smile grew upon his face. He reached into his coat and said warmly, "Yes…yes I'm fine…" John removed a small white business card. Written in the back was:

_Hill Brothers Circus_

_390 Old Mill Road_

_Sandy Point Fl._

_32006_

"I'd like to arrange for a bottle of your most expensive perfume to be sent to a Ms. Hill, care of the Hill Brothers Circus…charge it to my account…and on second thought…make that a case." John gave the woman, who looked at him oddly, the card.

_I get a new VCR and a dozen tapes for Tiny…some incense, the real stuff straight from India, for Vashnu…new wardrobe for both Lorna and Cleve. I sign the cards, "Merry Christmas-From Boston."_

_I also have him call his office and order six weeks' severance pay to all the employees he pink-slipped. I'd love to be there when the bills start rolling in._

John left the department store and when he was half way to his limo, the door already open, he stopped and shuddered once more as a phantom escaped from his body.

His skin was pale white. His suit was blood red with a single white D on his belly. A large red, curving hood covered the back of his head. He flew on a ghostly wind above the people, still laughing and loving, people who never saw him.

_This is, me. I'm Deadman. Christmas is not my favorite time of year. Too damn much goodwill floating around. Not enough for me to do. Too much time to be alone…_

He flew over a frozen pond, young couples skating about on it. Love and affection poured off of them, into the air.

_Tried visiting Lorna and the circus one year. Felt like the bloody Spectre at the banquet! They've all had too much weirdness in their lives as it is, without me dropping in like something out of Dickens. A gift…a card…that's all, the reminder I want to burden them with._

_There's Corrigan, of course, but God knows he gets little enough normalcy either. That's the problem. Anyone who can even see me has tsuris of their own; Christmas, Hanukah, they're the few moments of peace and normalcy they get in a year._

He flew down and merged with a young blonde girl in a light orange dress, skating across the frozen surface. With skill and grace far beyond her own, she danced about with such beauty.

_Ah, this is more like it. Being able to feel the wind on your…face…the chill in the air…the smell of fresh-fallen snow. You forget what it feels like, being alive_.

Just as quickly as he had overshadowed her, Deadman fled her body and found a new host, a red haired man in a stripped sweater, skating along side a raven-haired woman.

_The touch of a woman's hand…the sound of her laugh. Good body, strong, athletic and…ah…aroused. Definitely aroused. With good reason. Excuse me miss, but have you ever considered marrying a ghost?_

She led her boyfriend (_husband? Can't feel a wedding ring)_ off the ice. "Whew! Think that's my limit, Paul." She said in a soft voice, the kind of voice that only one out of a billion woman have. "Besides, we'd better move on or we'll be late for the party."

_Well, that was fast. I'd better beat a quick-_

She stopped and pulled him close. "Look, your lips are practically blue. We'd best do something before hypothermia sets in…" With that, their lips met in a passionate kiss.

_What the Hell. It's just a party, right?_

"Paul! Kerry! Glad you could make it! Merry Christmas!" the apparent host of the Christmas Party greeted warmly.

"Uh…yeah, Merry Christmas." "Paul" said, trying his best to hide his uncomfortable feelings.

"Merry Christmas, Tom." Kerry replied with a smile.

"Well, come on, come in!" Tom ushered the two in from the cold.

_They welcome me like old friends, and for a moment, I let myself believe they are. More than a moment, it turns out. I picked up the names pretty quickly. Most I can glean from the tags on the presents. They're nice people. Nice, normal people. And I'm one of them._

I feel like a kid again, on Christmas morning. I feel like I belong here. Like I've always been here. Like I always will be. And when we sit down to dinner…it's like any Christmas dinner I ever had as a kid…when Dad would carry out the bird and Cleve and I would carve it, and Mom would serve us yams and stuffing… Except it's not. It's not my Christmas at all. It's his. Paul's. I try to tell myself how lucky he is, how I'm only stealing a fraction of his life-but however I look at it…I'm still stealing it.

_What if this "Lucky Guy" were to die tomorrow? What if this were his last Christmas? Hell-what if this was his best Christmas? What right do I have to take that from him? None. None at all!_

With a scream of pain and sorrow that would go unheard by the world, Deadman left Paul, left the home, left the friends and family, left the happiness… _I've already taken too much as it is. I leave before I can hear his confusion, before I can see the bewildered look in his eyes or the worry and concern in his friends'. I always leave before then_. High above the city streets, Deadman looked to the sky, fury painted on his pale face.

"Damn you, Rama!" He screamed. If he were still living, his vocal cords would have been damaged by his scream. "Is this the reward I get for serving you and your damned Lords of Order? Am I supposed to be grateful for this?!" _No answer. Rama must be off wrapping packages for her immediate Pantheon, all her close personal Demi-Gods._

Somberly, he drifted down to the street and sat on a freezing wooden bench. It would have been freezing at least, if he could feel anything. "Some reward. All the good I do all year, and this is what I-"

"Is that why you do it? For rewards?"

Deadman looked up to his side with a start. There stood a woman dressed in warm winter clothes, holding a purse in her hands. Her long golden hair fell just past her shoulders. Red, round earrings were just visible between the strands of hair.

"What-? You can see me?"

"Obviously." She said with a giggle. "Nice costume. Very seasonal."

Deadman stood up and glared at her. "Thanks, I wear green on St. Patty's day. Who are you, one of Madame Xanadu's smartass mystic friends?"

She turned around and said over her shoulder, "Me? No, magic and I have never been boon companions, I'm afraid."

"Then how-?"

"Does it matter?" she asked, Deadman following behind her like a lost puppy. "A minute ago you were raging against the Gods for being alone. If you want I can go ag-"

"No." pleaded the ghost. "No don't-"

_Who the Hell is she? I thought I knew every spook, sorcerer, mystic, or magician on Earth, but on her I draw a blank._

"Could it be that what's really bothering you is that all these people around us don't even know what you've done on their behalf?"

"So what if it is?" He shot back. "I knock myself out fighting for them, but does anyone know? Does anyone care?"

"Probably not. I mean you are dead, it comes with the territory." The blonde said.

"Gosh, thanks I feel so much better now."

"So you want recognition then? You want glory?" She asked, spinning around to face him.

_There was something about her…about her tone…that made me feel like lichen, compared to her. I'd been feeling like Job and here she was making me feel like Judas, and I didn't know why!_

"It's not that." He whispered. "Not glory. It's just…I was a performer you know? I played to the crowed. That sound, the sound of applause…there's nothing like it. You soar. I soared. Literally. Then, suddenly, it's gone. Forever. You're playing an empty tent and…I guess I never gotten used to it…"

The woman bit her lip her startlingly azure eyes seemed to drift away from the world for just a second. "You soared…and were cut down, at your height. Maybe there was a reason for that…Boston…take off that silly mask, and listen to me." With a gloved hand she gently grabbed Deadman's face, and pulled it off. Underneath was a human's face. His skin was lightly tanned. His obsidian hair was curly. His face was chiseled, stone like, but carried a gentle feel to it. "We don't do it for the glory. We don't do it for the recognition…we do it because it needs to be done, because if we don't, no one else will. And we do it even if no one knows what we've done. Even if no one knows we exist. Even if no one remembers we ever existed."

A stupid smile spread on Boston's face. He felt so dumb. "Yeah. I guess we do. Look, don't mind me." He chuckled. "I' just a putz sometimes, you know?"

"No." The blonde said, shaking her head. "You're human, Boston. Don't be ashamed of it; rejoice in it. Because it means your spirit-as flawed or selfish as our spirits can sometimes can be-is still alive."

_Alive. Maybe. Maybe so. The bell's, of St. Patrick's Cathedral started to chime in the distance, and she started away, to soon. _

"Well…I have to go. I have business to attend to. Merry Christmas, Boston." She said, waving goodbye.

"Hey!" Boston cried out. "Wait a minute! You didn't explain-Who are you? How can you see me? I…I don't even know your name…"

"My name is Kara. Though I doubt that'll mean anything to you." With that, Kara vanished around a corner. Boston flew after her and was shocked that she was gone. The street wasn't that crowded, he could still have seen her, but it was like she never there.

_She was right; it didn't. I still didn't know anything about her, other than what she gave me, that night…and I've got the feeling I never will. Like maybe that was the whole point_.

Boston smiled. "Merry Christmas, Kara. Whoever you are…"

The End

_I heard the bells on Christmas day_

_Their old familiar carols play,_

_And wild and sweet the words repeat_

_Of peace of earth, good will to men._

_And Thought how, as the day had come,_

_The belfries of all Christendom_

_Had rolled along the unbroken song_

_Of peace on earth, good will to men._

_And in despair I bowed my head_

_"There is no peace on earth," I said,_

_"For hate is strong and mocks the song_

_Of peace on earth, good will to men."_

_Then from each black accursed mouth_

_The cannon thundered in the South,_

_And with the sound the carols drowned_

_Of peace on earth, good will to men._

_It was as if an earthquake rent_

_The hearth-stones of a continent,_

_And made forlorn, the households born_

_Of peace on earth, good will to men._

_Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:_

_"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;_

_The wrong shall fail, the right prevail_

_With peace on earth, good will to men."_

_Till ringing singing on its way_

_The world revolved from night to day,_

_A voice a chime, a chant sublime,_

_Of peace on earth, good will toward men_

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Merry Christmas everyone!


End file.
